


The Broken Prince

by kingkraken



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: M/M, Psychological Torture, Ramsay is his own warning, Rape, Sadism, Torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-20
Updated: 2013-08-20
Packaged: 2017-12-24 02:30:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,920
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/934150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kingkraken/pseuds/kingkraken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was once the Prince of Winterfell. Now he lies, broken and half-starved, in a cold dank cell. He is defiant and refuses to learn his name. But he forgets what happens to things that don't bend...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Broken Prince

He should have expected it. Much later, when he looked back, he should have realised that it would happen. The Bastard had already taken a finger and a toe, flayed them with precision and then just left them to rot. There was nothing half as humiliating as screaming about something as small as a finger he thought, but he was wrong, as he so often was. But he still refused to learn his name, despite the cutting, despite having his teeth crushed , despite the whippings. The Bastard seemed to try and humiliate him in as many ways possible. The whippings were always performed in one of the courtyards, in front of an audience, usually the Bastard's Boys, who would laugh and jeer at him as he grit his teeth and tried to not let the tears that pressed hot and ready against his eyes fall to the ground and further disgrace him. His body was weakening, he knew. It was starting to mock him. Only a few days past they had whipped him, and he was in so much fright as they tied the leather bindings to the post that he hadn't noticed the warm liquid spilling down his breeches until he heard the men roar with laughter. They had been laughing at him, he realised. Laughing at the Prince of Winterfell who couldn't even hold his own piss. Prince of Winterfell. Hah. He had never been a prince, just as he had never been a lord, or anything else he had tried to be to make people proud. Everything he touched turned to shit in his hands. 

 

He didn't know what day it was, let alone what the time was. He had given up long ago on trying to keep the time. It had only driven him into madness further. He knew the days by only what they brought. Some days it was a beating, some days it was a whipping, some days they would take a knife to his skin and mark him. It was always a surprise. He was ravenous, for he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. He was thinner, and he could feel that he was weaker than he was before. _They could take take my tongue, put out my eyes, prick my ears, but I still won't let them take who I am_ , he thought. _They can never take me, who_ I _am._ But he was wrong, as he came to learn he was very good at being. 

 

He lay huddled in the corner wearing only his torn and filthy breeches, facing the wall. He wasn't asleep, and noticed the heavy footfalls heading down the corridor. _Please, please not me. There are others. Just please not me. Not today_ , he prayed. Not that it did anything when the footsteps stopped, directly outside his cell door. His friend, or the closest thing he'd ever had to one, with the red hair and the blue eyes had told him that he was the kind of person who could hear a spider spin its web. He wished he didn't have that type of hearing, for it told him that not only was he to be intruded on, but that there was more than one person with him. The sound of the key in the lock turned his spine to ice and he felt his limbs seize in panic. The door swung open forcefully and he scrambled up on his weak legs to cling to the wall, wishing it would swallow him whole as he stared into the eyes of the Bastard. The Bastard was dressed in a manner suited to the Lord of the Dreadfort, rich velvet and satin, in colours that could only be described as flesh pink and blood red. His men crowded behind him, Damon Dance-for-Me, Skinner, Yellow Dick, Sour Alyn, and others that the terrified man couldn't identify. The Bastard held a torch in his hand, and the light was bright, too bright for someone who couldn't remember the last time they had seen anything other than the inky black of the cell. The once prince shielded his eyes from it. The Bastard snorted in derision at his captive, and passed the torch to Sour Alyn. 

 

“What am I to do with you,?” his voice was soft, too soft, too gentle for a beast in a man's skin. “I have tried in vain to teach you, but you will not learn. I have had you beaten, whipped, flayed, cut, but you still defy me.” The Bastard crouched down and took his prisoner's chin between his thumb and forefinger in an almost kind touch. “What will it take for you to learn your name, hmm?” The cornered man tried to look away, but the Bastard's grip was firm. “Do you remember your name? You must. It's only four letters.”

 

The prisoner shook his head. He took a deep breath. “My name is Theon Greyjoy.”

 

The Bastard backhanded him so hard he tasted blood. _I said the wrong thing. The wrong name again. I need to remember. I need to know my name if I am to survive here._

 

The Bastard turned to his comrades. “He is being stubborn. And you know what happens to people when they don't behave. And _Reek..._ ” the Bastard placed emphasis on the word _Reek_ , saying the word with such force that his captive felt spittle hit the side of his face, “Reek is refusing to learn his name, despite how gently we've treated him.” The prisoner noticed the wicked glimmer in the Bastard's eye, and a sharp knife of dread twisted in his stomach. The Bastard's Boys shifted eagerly in the back. 

 

“How do you want it, m'lord?” one of the younger ones, the captive had forgotten his name said. 

 

The Bastard smiled his wet thick-lipped smile. “The usual.”

 

Quick as a snake the Bastard stood up, and before the huddling man could stand or move, four of the Boys were on him like wolves on a carcass. They grabbed him roughly and forced his face into the floor. It tasted of shit and mud and piss and blood. There was one of the Bastard's Boys to each limb, and they spread him wide. Terror washed over him, threatening to drown him. He'd already pissed himself, and he felt his traitorous eyes threaten to make way for tears. “Stop, please, stop... I'll do anything.... please, I'm sorry.... I'll be good....I'll learn my name.... I'll be Reek...” He hated how high-pitched and full of terror his voice had become. He sounded like a maiden. 

 

The Bastard chuckled grotesquely. “You'll do more than be Reek,” He leaned down low over his captive and put his mouth next to his prisoner's ear. “You'll be my Reek.” The man began to sob properly, thick heavy tears rolling down his cheeks. His fear was so great that he felt stabs of pain shoot through his broken body. He began to struggle, but there were four men, and each one was stronger and better fed than him. The Bastard was taking a long time, he noticed. It made it worse. He didn't know what the Bastard had planned for him, but a part of his mind whispered urgently what would happen. He tried to ignore it and kept struggling in the vain hope he could get loose. The men holding him down were laughing at his predicament. 

 

“Cut off his breeches.” _No no no no no not this not this anything but this_. He felt the cold blade run across his backside, felt the rip of the cloth as it was torn away from his body, felt the unwelcome kiss of the freezing air on his legs. The Boys were laughing, clearly enjoying themselves. The Bastard circled his prisoner, examining him for weaknesses, his cold pale eyes appraising every curve, every hollow. It was not a look of lust. It was a look of predatory calculation, a hunter evaluating his prey. The now defenseless man lying on the stones saw the Bastard out of his right eye, watched as he lowered his breeches to display his cock which was already hard. _So it is this,_ he told himself. _I will not cry out, I must remember._ The captive closed his eyes and gritted his teeth as the Bastard drew near. He tried to deny it as best he could when he felt the Bastard's hand on his head, keeping it immobilised; repressed a shudder when the Bastard ran a gloved hand up his inner thigh; tried to will away the fact that the Bastard had his cock pressed against his backside. But what he could not ignore or deny was the sharp, world-shattering pain that thrust into him roughly and without mercy. What he could not repress was the loud scream, long and loud and full of pain that continued as the Bastard pushed inside him, again and again, crushing him, breaking him. _It doesn't fit_ , he wanted to cry. They all laughed when he cried out, and laughed harder when he began to whimper and sob. Someone had told him, perhaps his sister, that when the pain gets to much the body shuts down. He had endured the flaying, and the cutting, and the whipping, and knew it wouldn't. But he told himself the lie anyway, in the hopes that if he believed the story it would be true. Everything around him was pain, he _was_ pain, all around him and in him. The Bastard's hand was heavy and it tore at his hair, and with each thrust he felt his cheek painfully grind into the stones. He thought about the girls he had bedded, for some of whom it had been their first time. He had never been gentle with them, never cared if it had hurt them, so long as he had his pleasure. How cruel the gods were, to punish him so. “Please....” he whispered. “Please...”

 

How long it lasted, he did not know. It felt like a thousand years before he felt the Bastard release his seed, and then it was over. The Bastard pulled himself out, rearranged his clothing and kicked his prisoner's ribs hard. The trembling, sobbing man barely felt it, only felt the disgusting mix of blood and seed that coated the floor between his legs. 

 

The Bastard walked around and stopped by the man's head. In a voice that could be mistaken for softness, he looked at the face of his victim. “Have we learnt a lesson today? What is your name?”

 

The broken man thought about it for a moment. He tried to remember. _It rhymes with freak_ , he told himself bitterly. That was what he was now. He had been taken by another man without fighting. He had been used as a woman. He was no better than a whore. 

 

“R...Reek.” He remembered. He would have rejoiced if he didn't want to die. 

 

The Bastard gave him a loathsome smile. “Yes. It would appear that you have learned your little lesson. I have a reward for you.” His voice was as slippery as a snake, and twice as cunning. 

 

_A reward?_

 

“You said 'please'. It seemed as though you were enjoying yourself there, Reek.”

 

_No, no, no._

 

The Bastard put his boot down on his plaything's head, and contorted his worm-like lips into a grin. _This can't mean what I think it means. Please, no._ He closed his eyes as tight as possible. 

 

“Skinner, Luton, Alyn, Dick, Damon. You're next.”


End file.
